Page 51

you know it too, I don't understand why you ask me. Do you want to take the stamps and leave me alone?"

"Hemingway is a writer. You cannot throw away his letters."

"But if I tell you I have read them! I can't read and reread them just because he's a writer, do you understand?"

"I didn't say you have to read and reread them. I just said you don't have to throw them away!" 

"And why? To fill the drawers even more?"

"Damn, you really don't want to understand! Hemingway is an important writer, Promise you won't throw his letters away again. Promise." Jackie looked angry. Luckily he didn't suspect how many letters ended up in the trash can, I thought. He would have been even more angry. 

"I promise," I said.

As he peeled off the Cuban stamps from the torn envelopes, I remembered how many worries they had given me, the stamps. I always had a supply, to be able to stamp before going out and immediately post in the first box I found on the street. However, I had not yet acquired the mentality of a foreign correspondent, I often wrote on heavy paper, every now and then I hastily pasted the same stamps on all the envelopes, including the one for Havana. Papa ended up having to pay the fine and sometimes he warned me to be more careful, not because the fine would bother him but to avoid the risk of not receiving my letters.

Another problem at that time. "Warning: you are in France = 50 francs" He would remind me after having received a a letter absent-mindedly stamped in Venice, then posted in Paris. He had elected me "Stamp champion of the world," after another one arrived without postage. "None. Neither canceled nor anything and they made no charge for it." Nothing, I canceled it ...